Recipe for Disaster
by lborgia88
Summary: Joe and Ken have an undercover mission to fulfill - at a cooking class.
1. Chapter 1

[Thank you, Transmute Jun and Clouddancer for beta reading.]

**Recipe for Disaster**

**Chapter 1**

Joe hadn't thought anything could surprise him anymore.

Whenever he and the rest of the Science Ninjas were summoned to Dr. Nambu's briefing room at the Crescent Coral Base, the reason varied in details but the underlying message was always the same: Galactor had, or was about to, steal/destroy/kill something or someone and the mission was inevitably some variant of retrieve/prevent/protect (and, on a good day, one that let him wreak havoc with missiles, shuriken or his own fists).

Never in a million years did he think that Dr. Nambu would order Ken and him attend a cooking class.

"It's not a typical cooking class," Dr. Nambu attempted to explain over his (and Ken's) protests, "It's a one-day class conducted by the celebrity chef Julian Wilde."

"Ooh," said Jun, as she sat upright now on the couch, "He's the one from that reality show, 'So You Think You Can Cook?' isn't he? He's really famous."

"Yeah," snickered Jinpei, adding in a whisper to Ryu, "And she watches it sometimes because she _thinks_ she can cook."

He didn't whisper quietly enough.

"I can cook," declared Jun, looking around at everyone else for corroboration.

An awkward pause ensued as Joe, Ken and Ryu suddenly found the window, floor and ceiling, respectively, to be fascinating. Dr. Nambu stared down at some papers on his desk, shuffling them wordlessly.

"Well I cook more than Ken or Joe at least!" she went on, "And, I run the Snack J. It makes sense that I should be-"

"There are reasons for my decision," cut in Dr. Nambu, "Allow me to explain."

With a frown in Jinpei's direction that promised much dishwashing labor for him, Jun sat back again and prepared to listen.

"It's a fundraiser for charity, being held in Amegapolis," said Dr. Nambu, "All the participants in the class have paid $10,000 to attend. At its conclusion, Chef Wilde will select the best student, who will get to choose the charity that Chef Wilde will then donate all the entry fees to, and also be featured on an episode of his TV show."

"Again, Doctor," said Ken, shaking his head, "I still don't understand why you want Joe and me to do this. Is it some sort of PR thing for the Science Ninja Team?"

"Oh no," Dr. Nambu replied, "Most of the entrants, naturally, will be very wealthy or prominent people but you two won't be attending as Gatchaman and the Condor –you'll be completely undercover."

Joe narrowed his eyes. He was starting to see where this was leading.

"Let me guess, Doctor," he said, "You have some reason to think that Galactor is going to make trouble at this cooking class?"

"That's exactly it, Joe," said Dr. Nambu, looking alternately at him and Ken, "I was contacted two days ago by Princess Flake –you all remember her, of course?"

Of course they did, thought Joe, as they all nodded; they'd saved her from Katse and a pack of Devil Stars just a couple months or so ago in the Monalince Kingdom. And, they'd done it while on _roller skates_ –that wasn't something you could forget, although he had since tried very hard to do so.

"She had just learned that her younger sister, Princess Jessica, is one of the entrants –apparently she wasn't going to tell Princess Flake her plans for fear that she would be forbidden to attend. Recent events, as you can well imagine, have made Princess Flake very concerned about her and her sister's safety."

"So that's it," said Ken, "She wants Science Ninjas to be bodyguards for her sister." He didn't look all that impressed but Joe didn't blame him –they routinely destroyed entire mechas and secret bases; guard duty was more than a little beneath them.

"There's more to it than that," replied Dr. Nambu, as if sensing their thoughts, "The same day Princess Flake discovered her sister's plans to go to Amegapolis, ISO Intelligence intercepted part of a radio transmission on a frequency that Galactor has used before. We can't identify its sender or intended recipient, unfortunately, but the message was 'The Princess dies in Amegapolis this Saturday.'"

"When is this whole cooking class event supposed to take place?" asked Joe.

"This Saturday," said Dr. Nambu.

Okay, that was _something_. Joe and Ken exchanged glances.

"Naturally, I wouldn't normally send you out for a mission like this, one that could be handled by regular security personnel, but Princess Flake did specifically ask that I send Gatchaman. Considering the very generous patronage we've received in the past from Princess Flake and the likely involvement of Galactor in a threat to her sister…"

"Yeah," said Ken, "Of course we'll do it, but do we have to be entrants in the class?"

Clearly he was envisioning himself trying to cook to the standards of a celebrity chef and not liking what he saw. Neither did Joe. He would look pathetic for sure, and there wasn't much that he hated more than that.

"Right," said Joe, "Can't we just guard her from the sidelines?"

"No," sighed Dr. Nambu, "This is a private event and I need you two to blend in at this class and not draw any attention –in fact, I want you to pretend you don't even know each other. You see, it's my hope that there _will_ be an attack on Princess Jessica but that you two will prevent it from succeeding _and_ capture the assassin. I want to know if it is in fact Galactor again threatening the Monalince royal family or if it's some other individual or group this time."

"So how exactly are you getting us discreetly into this class at the last minute?" asked Ken, "Wouldn't all the available spots be taken up? I mean, it's just two days from now."

"I have managed to get hold of a list of all the entrants' names but there isn't time now to do more than a cursory investigation into their backgrounds for any criminal or suspicious history."

Dr. Nambu shifted slightly in his chair before continuing.

"I contacted as many of them as I could, pretending to be someone affiliated with the event doing a last-minute confirmation of attendance, and I learned in this way that two entrants have, just now, cancelled. This is very good luck for us as I, naturally, will refrain from passing on this information to anyone genuinely affiliated with the event. Princess Flake asked for Gatchaman, but if I can send two of you, I will. Ken and Joe will show up at the class on Saturday and pretend to be these two people, and you two will make sure that you are close to Princess Jessica the entire time. Princess Jessica herself will be none the wiser, as her sister has refrained from telling her that she's requested the aid of the Science Ninja Team."

"Why's that?" asked Ryu, "Wouldn't she want her kid sister to feel safer?"

"Hmm, while I feel I could possibly trust Princess Flake, a wise and serious ruler, with knowledge of what Gatchaman and the Condor look like out of their birdstyles, this trust does not extend to her sister. It's best if she has no idea that you will be at the event."

"Makes sense," said Joe.

"Yes, and from what Princess Flake tells me, Princess Jessica is of a rather strong-willed… even rebellious temperament. She thinks, at age seventeen, that she is 'perfectly capable of taking care of herself,' and continually makes difficulties about having bodyguards around her or tries to 'ditch' them to be alone with boys. Princess Flake is quite in despair about it. As their parents are dead, she feels very responsible for her younger sister's upbringing and well-being."

"She sounds like a brat," said Jun.

"I don't know," said Joe, smirking, "I think I might like her already."

"Doctor," said Ken, "Who are the people that Joe and I will be pretending to be?"

"Ah yes," said Dr. Nambu, shuffling papers on his desk again, "You, Ken, are Wilbert Peters-"

Joe snorted.

"_Wilbert_?" laughed Jinpei, "That is so dorky!"

Ken's jaw tightened slightly but he merely continued to look at Dr. Nambu.

"Yes," continued Dr. Nambu, "You are a 24 year old computer genius and the CEO of a small but very successful and profitable software company. Fortunately, you are eccentric and are rarely seen in public or photographed, so you should be able to pass for him without much trouble. You'll need to wear this badge to get into the event." He handed Ken a large, plastic name tag featuring "Wilbert Peters," "Julian Wilde's First Annual Charity Cook-off" and a bar code.

"What about me?" asked Joe.

Dr. Nambu shifted in his chair again.

"I want to state, one more time, the debt of gratitude we owe to Princess Flake and the deep necessity of eliminating any Galactor plots against the Monalince Kingdom, one of the ISO's best allies-"

"Who am I?" demanded Joe.

"You, um… are an author. Your books sell quite well, but fortunately you use a pen name, so not as many people will recognize your… 'real name.' If anyone does, you will explain that you value your privacy very highly and therefore the photograph of you on your books' jackets is not really you at all and-"

Joe's eyes widened in alarm. Surely this didn't mean…

"What the hell is my name?" His voice hit a slightly higher note than he'd intended.

"You are Fern Wembley."

"_Fern?!!"_ He was too aghast to say more but he moved away from the wall where he'd been leaning, towards Dr. Nambu.

"You're an author," continued Dr. Nambu stolidly, "You publish under the name Violet du Maurier-"

"_Violet?!!" _Ken stood up hastily and blocked Joe's way.

"Hey, I think Sis has a couple books by her!" said Jinpei, "They're goopy romance novels!"

Jun glared at him. "At least I read more than just comics!"

"_How the hell am I supposed to pass myself off as a 'Fern'?_" yelled Joe, finally managing to speak in sentences again, glowering at Ken.

"Stop laughing!" he said a second later, sweeping angry eyes across his other teammates.

"Tell people your parents were crazy, plant-loving hippies?" suggested Ryu.

"Claim there was a typo on your entry application and you're really 'Vern'?" suggested Ken.

"Say it's short for 'Fernando' -like that ABBA song?" suggested Jun.

"You know what?" said Joe, throwing his arms in the air angrily before stalking back to his place by the wall, "I'm not doing this, Doctor –pick someone else!"

"Don't look at me," laughed Ryu as Ken sat back down, "I like to eat, but no way am I doing something like this!"

"And Jinpei's too young," added Jun, "Doctor, I'll go in Joe's place. Clearly I'm the best person for-"

"Gatchaman will go alone, then," said Dr. Nambu resignedly, pointedly not looking at Jun, "As Joe is clearly unable to inconvenience himself even slightly to help one of the Team's most loyal supporters. It won't be easy, Ken, as you alone will have to find a way to stay close to the Princess throughout an entire event that will last several hours."

"Yeah, no bathroom breaks for you!" laughed Jinpei.

"But," said Dr. Nambu, looking speculatively at Ken, "From what Princess Flake tells me about her sister, she will welcome and enjoy… friendly attention from a young man such as yourself."

Still slouched sullenly against the wall, Joe couldn't help but be amused by the expression that crossed Ken's face.

And the look on Jun's face too.

"You're saying I'm supposed to… _flirt_ with her?" asked Ken.

"This photo will enable you to identify her amongst all the other entrants," continued Dr. Nambu smoothly.

He turned on a view screen, and there was an image of Princess Jessica.

Joe had been envisioning a younger version of the elegant but plain and very formal Princess Flake, but Princess Jessica…

"Babe," "hottie," "fox"… She was the embodiment of all such terms.

This changed everything.

Really, it _was_ his duty to aid the Team's patron, Princess Flake. And Ken was clueless around girls –clearly Fern was needed here to handle the "diplomatic relations" side of this important mission.

"I've changed my mind, Doctor," Joe said, "I'll go."

0000000000

"Don't think that I don't know why you changed your mind," said Ken, as Joe waited for the light to change at an intersection in downtown Amegapolis.

"What? Do you think you've got a lock on the whole 'sacrifice in the name of duty' thing? I _hate_ cooking, but we have an obligation to Princess Flake to-"

"You stay away from Princess Jessica," said Ken, frowning, "Just watch her from a distance."

"You heard the Doctor," said Joe, unable to keep the smirk off his lips now, "Our orders are to stay close to her. _Really_ close. Surely you of all people aren't going to tell me to be disobedient? I only-"

"Damn it, Joe, you know what I mean! Leave her alone!" said Ken with sudden vehemence.

Joe's smirk disappeared. The light had gone green, but as he accelerated the car, he turned his head briefly to glare at Ken.

"I'm not sure I do," he said, his tone icy, "You'd better explain."

"Hell, Joe," said Ken, shoving his hair off his forehead and exhaling loudly, "You're my best friend… But when it comes to women, you're the biggest disaster magnet on the planet!"

"That's a load of crap!"

Another damned red light –he hated driving in cities- but at least now he could _really_ glare at Ken.

"That maid, the summer we were sixteen-"

"Hey, the Doctor fired her 'cause he found her snooping in his desk, not in my-"

"Director Anderson's granddaughter."

"All I did was-"

"You got her expelled from her school!"

"She hated that place anyway and-"

"That maintenance tech, at the Crescent Base. Last I saw her, she was screaming that you'd broken her heart and was trying to shoot you!"

"She missed me every time! She didn't really mean-"

"Now she's permanently assigned to a weather station in Antarctica!

"Could be worse-"

"Yeah, at least she's not dead!" After a pause, Ken spoke again, staring rigidly ahead.

"Lucy."

Joe clenched his jaw, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

"Maya," said Ken next.

The light was green. Joe floored the gas, tearing across the intersection.

"So what the hell is your point, Ken?" growled Joe, seething.

"I already told you! You attract women who are _trouble_. Princess Jessica may well be a brat who just wants to annoy her big sister, but her sister is Princess Flake and a critical supporter of the ISO and us! I am not going to stand by and watch you create a diplomatic fiasco just so you can…" Ken made a vague hand gesture.

Joe snapped "At least I get some-" He copied the gesture. "If I die tomorrow, at least I'll know I really _lived_. You and Jun-"

"We are _not_ talking about me and Jun," cut in Ken, staring rigidly ahead again.

A cold silence followed.

At the next red light, Joe pulled his car close to the sidewalk.

"Get out," he told Ken.

"Damn it, Joe, I'm giving you good advice and you know it. You don't have to get pissy!"

"We're only five blocks away now. We're not supposed to know each other, remember? _You_ can walk the rest of the way."

"Oh… right." Ken got out and soon Joe lost sight of him amid the crowd of moving pedestrians. On Dr. Nambu's instructions, they were both wearing long-sleeved collared shirts that concealed their numbered tees and their bracelets.

"It won't do for you two to look too much alike," he'd said, "And we have reason to think Galactor recognizes your bracelets."

The light was green and Joe was able to cover the remaining distance to his destination without hitting any more red lights.

Sure, he'd had some… bad luck with women, but a guy's luck can change at any time, he told himself, still scowling. He was _not_ a magnet for disaster.

0000000000

Joe pulled into the valet circle. The car in front of him was a massive and luxurious sedan, with darkened windows and Joe knew bomb-proof armor and bullet-proof glass when he saw it. The instant it stopped, a door from the backseat opened and out popped Princess Jessica, slamming the door behind her. She glared towards the driver's window and made a shooing gesture that clearly indicated "Get lost!"

The young valet standing there, however, was favored with a dazzling smile as she went past him towards the building's entrance and left him gaping in her wake.

Joe could hardly blame him. Her hair, a wave of honey-brown curls cascaded down her back. Her close-fitting jeans and pink halter top accentuated her figure's perfect curves as she walked slowly, swaying gracefully in high heeled sandals.

She drew the eyes of everyone in the vicinity; if they didn't know who she was, they surely must have thought she was the latest teen movie starlet or pop singer. She definitely had that aura.

Joe got out of his car now, handing the key to another valet –something he normally wouldn't do, but today he was just driving a nondescript rental car. He glanced up, quickly surveying all the rooflines and windows of the surrounding buildings for signs of Galactor assassins with sharp-shooting rifles, but everything looked okay. Still, he'd feel better once she got inside the building.

As soon as she was, the car she'd arrived in finally pulled away. Joe walked quickly to enter the building and catch up to her. She might think she'd left her bodyguards behind in the car for this event, but she was wrong. Hers was definitely a body that merited more guarding!

He watched her produce a badge from her purse for an event official to examine and scan

"Welcome to Chef Wilde's Charity Cook-off, Miss Jessica Nassau."

Not using her royal title here, Joe noted –a good thing.

As Jessica walked away, the official next studied Joe's badge, then glanced at him curiously, smirking.

Joe groaned inwardly

But, apparently his identity checked out to this official's satisfaction.

"Welcome to Chef Wilde's Charity Cook-off, Mr. Fern Wembley."

"My parents were crazy hippies," muttered Joe, now reluctantly fastening the badge to his shirt pocket.

"Chef Wilde's kitchen is just through the doors over there, Sir."

He walked past the official quickly, once again trying to catch up to Jessica.

_Something_ worthwhile had better come of all this, he thought.

0000000000

The kitchen was huge, brightly lit and filled with rows of cooking stations, but dominated by one larger cooking station at the front of the room, elevated a foot or so higher than the rest. Several cameras were trained on it, and their footage was appearing on large screens on all the room's walls –footage of the celebrity chef. Julian Wilde, dressed in immaculate white with a chef's hat perched on his head at rakish angle was standing there, somehow managing to look both arrogant and ingratiating as numerous entrants all clustered around him excitedly and sought to greet him.

"Trying to suck up to him, more like," thought Joe, disliking the man on sight and wondering once again just how the hell he'd gotten himself into a situation where he'd have to try to cook for such a pompous twit.

Then he saw Jessica approaching the Chef, and remembered how.

She squealed "Chef Juuulian, I'm your biggest fan!" and kissed him on the cheek.

For an instant, his face looked less pompous and more like that young valet outside –and Joe could tell because a close up view of his face was showing on all the screens on the walls.

Yeah, she was going to win for sure.

"I've seen every episode of your show, and I've studied _all_ your moves," she cooed, with a giggle.

Chef Julian almost preened as Jessica continued to butter him up but managed merely to laugh deprecatingly as she oohed and aahed over whatever cooking junk and ingredients he had sitting out, asking questions. Ugh, thought Joe, looking around the room. There had to be nearly four dozen entrants in the place now and the ones that weren't trying to fawn over Chef Julian or gazing at Jessica were milling around selecting their own cooking stations.

Many of the entrants were well dressed, middle-aged-or-older types who at least looked harmless. Joe also noticed that the entrants' cooking stations were all divided into little islands that each contained two stations.

"Young man, I'm certain I know your name from somewhere…," said a grandmotherly type, peering at Joe's badge , "Do you, by any chance, write?"

Crap!

"Uh, no, not me!" said Joe, moving away from her as fast as he could without making his aversion too obvious. Everyone was pairing up now at cooking stations; he knew who he wanted to "pair up" with, and it sure wasn't this woman.

Finally! Jessica, with another giggle and a wave, had walked away from Chef Julian's station. It was time for him to make his move.

But of course, he always played it cool. As Jessica moved in his general direction, he gave her a _look_ and a hint of a smile but no more as he stood confidently, surveying the room.

And it worked. She was coming his way and, damn, she was even better close up, with softly rounded cheeks and chin, a button nose with a faint dash of freckles, pink rosebud lips and large, long-lashed eyes, dancing with mischief.

"Hi," she said, smiling as she drew near and clearly also liking what she saw. So near, in fact, that she whispered in his ear, "Am I glad to see you."

So diverting was her body's proximity, her floral perfume and the feel of her breath on his neck, he was momentarily bemused. Had Dr. Nambu, after all, let her in on the plan?

"We're the only ones here who aren't soccer moms or geezers," she continued with a soft giggle.

Ah, so she didn't know who he was.

"Then clearly we belong together, Jessica," he replied, with just a touch of innuendo.

She took a step back, silent but smiling knowingly as her eyes moved intently over his face.

"Perhaps we do…"

She glanced at his badge.

"_Fern_?" She giggled again, more sharply.

Damn it!

"Uh, a typo. My name's really Vern."

But she'd taken another step back and she wasn't looking at him anymore; she was looking at something beyond him and clearly _really_ liking what she saw.

"Excuse me," she said, and she walked right past Joe.

Joe turned around.

_Damn it!_ Ken.

It was Ken, with his youthful face, intensely blue, long-lashed eyes and dark, silky wind-tousled hair; Ken, with his earnest, aloof and so very "I'm on duty" air that was an irresistible challenge for so many girls.

Jessica made a beeline his way. He could practically hear her thinking "Ooh, he's so cute!" as she introduced herself to Ken.

He turned away, knowing he'd lost the game this time.

_Damn it all to hell!_

Bitter experience had taught Joe that once a girl went for pretty-boy Ken, he himself didn't stand a chance. Of course, the silly things didn't stand a chance with Ken either. He'd never admitted it to him, but Joe knew Ken loved Jun.

And she loved Ken. He couldn't resist giving Ken a hard time about his apparent inaction there, but the truth was, he envied them. He was still searching.

He could hear Ken saying "I'm pleased to meet you, Jessica. Call me Wil. It seems we're supposed to be taking our places at these cooking stations…"

"Everyone," announced Chef Julian, "If you haven't already, please take your place at a cooking station."

Joe looked all around the room and realized that everyone –including Ken and Jessica- had paired up. He was the odd man out.

Jessica was chattering away to Ken, with pauses for flirtatious giggles, and standing so close to him she'd practically abandoned her own cooking station for Ken's. From what she'd said to Chef Julian, she probably really did have a clue about cooking –and now it was bloody obvious that she was going to be helping Ken too.

There was nothing for Joe to do now but take his place at the one island whose two cooking stations were still unoccupied –and it was the one to the right of Ken and Jessica's.

He tried to fight off a rising sense of panic. He didn't know a damned thing about cooking, and he didn't have anyone to imitate or to help him! He was going to make a laughing stock of himself here!

He couldn't help but cast a dirty look over at Ken. Ken's eyes met his briefly, conveying silent triumph. He knew what Ken was thinking –"I _told_ you to stay away from Princess Jessica." And he'd gotten his way too, the bastard.

Jessica giggled yet again –a sound that now grated on Joe's ears.

"We're still waiting on one entrant, Myrtle Vlach," announced Chef Julian, his voice amplified by speakers set around the room, "But I've been informed she'll be in momentarily, so we will be starting soon. Please continue to explore your cooking stations and familiarize yourself with all your ingredients and equipment."

_Myrtle?_ Ken was going to be cooking with the hottest chick in the place –even if she had misguided taste in men- while he was going to be stuck sharing his island with some old bag named Myrtle –who was probably an avid reader of Violet du Maurier novels!

Everything had gone wrong! And the worst part was being one-upped by Ken.

This was going to be a very, very bad day.

He peered into the small but well-stocked refrigerator below the counter and stared at the bewildering array of kitchen implements, containers and bottles that festooned his cooking station, brooding…

Chef Julian was blathering on about how, as he was visiting Ameris, he wanted to make that most Amerisian of dishes -apple pie.

Joe had never made a pie in his life, but he'd heard they were a pain in the ass to do.

He sighed quietly. Whoever Myrtle was –hell, even if she were 95 and demented- he would need to be very, very nice to her.

He needed help.

If only Galactor would really attack the place, prayed Joe –the sooner the better!

0000000000


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Hello there, is this place not yet taken?" asked a voice from behind Joe –a female voice, low and smooth with an alluring accent he couldn't quite place.

He spun around quickly.

Dark, kohl-rimmed eyes met his –eyes in a pale face with cut-glass cheekbones and dark red lips. Smooth black chin-length hair and bangs framed her face.

Joe stared…

"I regret I have arrived late. I am Myrtle."

_This was Myrtle?_ She was wearing a sleek ensemble of sleeveless black turtleneck and black leather pants, she was tall and lithe, and she couldn't have been much more than 25 years old. But her badge confirmed her name.

She extended a hand in greeting. Her fingernails were dark red too.

Joe wrested himself from his surprised stupor to shake her hand. Her eyes roved his face and shirt.

"Hi," he replied, "I'm…" _Crap._

Her gaze fixed on his badge.

"Fern –short for Fernando. Like that ABBA song," he blurted out.

"I like that song," she said calmly, and proceeded to take her place at the island's other cooking station, humming to herself and appraising everything with a critical eye.

"Yes," she said, "This will do. Everything necessary is here, and is top quality. We would expect no less from Julian Wilde, no?"

He had to know.

"So… you've done a lot of cooking?"

"Oh yes," replied Myrtle matter-of-factly, studying the label on a bottle of wine she'd pulled from a rack, "I am very good. And you?"

"Well," said Joe, trying not to let his desperation show, "When it comes to cooking, I'm more of a beginner. I'm here because it's a good cause –for charity and all."

"Ah," she said, smiling at him, "I am sure you have other talents," she added, with a suggestive raise of one eyebrow.

He smiled back. "Yes, I do."

She opened the wine and even procured two glasses from the depths of a cupboard.

"Then I am sure we can make a… mutually satisfying arrangement," she purred, handing him some wine, "I will help you cook."

She didn't say what she wanted in return but she drew close to him, languidly draping an arm over his shoulder to toy with the collar of his shirt while clinking her glass briefly against his. This was better than words.

"To us, then," said Joe, raising his glass and taking a sip.

"Yes," said Myrtle, "And to victory!"

This, thought Joe, as he and Myrtle shared a significant look, might turn out to be a very, _very_ good day after all. He put his arm lightly around her waist.

"Now that we're all here, let us begin!" announced Chef Julian, his voice cutting through the din of entrants' clatter and conversation. Silence fell and Myrtle unwound herself from Joe and glided to her station.

Joe turned to face the front of the room again, and glanced briefly to his left.

Ken was staring right at him, looking appalled.

Hah! Joe took another sip of wine and smirked at Ken. Ken could have Jessica all to himself. He much preferred Myrtle anyway –it was like comparing a pink Corvette to a black Lamborghini.

And Myrtle was going to win. He was sure of it.

0000000000

**Pâte Sucrée**

**200 grams (7 ounces) flour**

**30 grams (1 ounce) sugar**

**5 grams (¼ teaspoon) salt**

**100 grams (7 tablespoons) butter**

**1 egg mixed with 5 milliliters (1 teaspoon) of water**

Joe looked at the recipe that was on the large screen directly behind Chef Julian. He guessed that it must be for pie crust but he had no clue what to actually do with the ingredients. He glanced over at Myrtle, who merely shrugged.

"It is a basic recipe," she said, "Not hard."

"Crafting fine pastry dough," declared Chef Julian, "requires mastering the delicate balance between the gluten, the fat, and the water. The pastry's strength comes from the flour's gluten and its tenderness from the fat in the butter but the moisture level in the flour, the type of butter used, how the two are mixed together, even the level of humidity in the air – all these things affect the balance."

Joe swallowed. This sure didn't sound easy.

"The water is crucial! It enables the formation of the gluten molecules," continued Chef Julian, parading back and forth at his cooking station and apparently admiring the changing views of his own face on the large screens around the room, "Too much, the dough will be dry and hard; too little and it will be crumbly and unworkable…"

Eventually he stopped lecturing and told everyone to combine their dry ingredients.

"Do not use a bowl," whispered Myrtle, "See what Julian is doing up there? Sift them together directly on the counter –like I am doing."

And a few minutes later, when Chef Julian told them to begin working in the butter she added "Here, use some of my butter. I have kept it in the freezer awhile and it is very cold now. Julian did not say –he is testing us- but it is better that way. Be quick and light with your hands too, see? Do not let them melt the butter."

Soon, Joe was relieved to see that his mixture –thanks to Myrtle's advice and example- was suitably "sandy" in texture and contained no large bits of butter.

But next, Chef Julian instructed them to form a "well" in their mixture, add the egg-and-water to it, and then blend it all together.

"I have prepared ice water too," whispered Myrtle as she handed him a small pitcher she'd pulled from the refrigerator, "Use this water with your egg –colder is better."

Chef Julian was now strutting up and down the room, past all the cooking stations, and evaluating all the pastry efforts. He was dimly aware that many entrants were receiving less-than-gentle critiques from him, though he was clearly restraining himself because they'd ponied up ten grand to be here. Joe kept a close eye on Myrtle's hands and tried to do what she was doing. She added a tiny splash more of ice water to her mixture, glanced at his and whispered "You just need a few extra drops." A moment later she told him "Stop now –yours is good. It is a mistake to overwork dough –that makes it tough."

Joe stepped back and sighed, stretching his neck side to side before washing and drying his hands. He hadn't realized how absorbed he'd been in his efforts. Myrtle poured some more wine in his glass.

Chef Julian strolled by and paused for a moment to examine his and Myrtle's pastry (and Myrtle). "Well done," he said, sounding genuinely impressed. As the Chef moved on, he and Myrtle shared a congratulatory smirk and she showed him how to wrap his dough in plastic to chill in the refrigerator.

Ken's and Jessica's pastry, however, each only merited a neutral "hmm," from the Chef.

Hah!

"I'm afraid I don't have the experience that comes with _age_," remarked Jessica, ostensibly to Ken but rather louder than necessary

Myrtle rolled her eyes.

"So tell me," said Joe, now lounging against the counter and gazing admiringly at his ass-saving pastry mentor, "Where did you learn how to do all that? Did you attend the Cordon Bleu?"

She laughed a low, smoky laugh. "I have been many places and learned many things," she said, with a mysterious little tilt of her head, "I get bored easily, and ever want… new experiences." She was moving her gaze slowly down Joe's body as she spoke, stirring a response of anticipation within him.

"You can tell a lot about a man, I find," she said, "By watching him cook. Cooking is, in essence, an art meant to create sensual pleasure."

"Oh?" said Joe warmly.

"Yes, a man who will take the time to prepare and share a finely made meal is a man who…" She let her words trail off, but her gaze was intense.

"I was watching you," she continued, "and you say you are new to cooking, but you are good. True cooking is not learned from a book –it is all about using your hands and relying on instincts. You learn it by immersing yourself in it and _living_ it. I sense that you have much potential to be… superb."

"Attention, everyone!" blared Chef Julian's voice, interrupting a conversation whose direction Joe was liking very much.

Smiling to herself, Myrtle now turned her attention to the front of the room.

"While everyone's pastry is chilling," continued Chef Julian, "we will prepare the 'apple' part of the apple pie, or should I say, 'tarte aux pommes.'" New information appeared on the screen behind him.

**For the apple compote:**

**1 kilogram (2¼ pounds) Golden Delicious apples**

**½ lemon**

**50 grams (1½ ounces) sugar**

**30 milliliters (2 tablespoons) water**

**For the garnish:**

**800 grams (1¾ pounds) Golden Delicious apples**

**½ lemon**

**50 grams (3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon) melted butter**

**For the glaze:**

**100 grams (3½ ounces) apricot jam, puréed**

**20 milliliters (1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon) water**

"You will naturally need to begin with the apples themselves," added the Chef.

With Myrtle at his side, Joe had no doubt he'd get through this part of the recipe just fine too. And, he was very skilled with knives. He had several apples immaculately peeled in little more than a minute.

And Myrtle, with a deft whack-whack-whack of her knife –at a speed that would cost many people a finger or two- produced neat and uniform apple slices.

0000000000

He and Myrtle had each placed their pies -as appealing to look at as he was sure they would be to eat, with perfectly rolled and shaped pastry and open-topped spiral designs of thinly and precisely sliced apple- into the oven to bake.

His first-ever pie, he thought, feeling oddly relaxed and happy. Who knew that cooking could be so enjoyable?

He was gazing at Myrtle as she gracefully wended her way through the rows of cooking stations, like a model on a catwalk, towards the ladies room…

Somebody behind him smacked his arm –and rather hard too! He turned quickly.

Ken. And an angry looking Ken, at that.

A hasty glance around revealed that Jessica was up at the front of the room, engrossed once more in sucking up to Chef Julian –not that it was going to do her any good, Joe was certain now that his Myrtle would triumph here today.

"What do you think you're doing, Joe?" demanded Ken in a piercing whisper.

"That's 'Fern,' to you!" said Joe, also trying to keep his voice low.

"That woman," said Ken, gesturing in the direction Myrtle had gone, "Who is she?"

"She's Myrtle Vlach –who the hell else would she be?"

"She could be the very person that I'm protecting Princess Jessica from –with no help from you, I might add!"

"What? You think Myrtle's an assassin? No way!"

"So where does she live then? What kind of job does she have? Has she told you anything like that?"

"No," admitted Joe, "But that's hardly proof that Myrtle's here to kill Princess Jessica!"

"She's as much a 'Myrtle' as you are a 'Fern,' but she sure has you fooled, doesn't she?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" hissed Joe.

"I'm trying to do a job –_our_ job- of protecting the Princess and staying vigilant but I have to watch you over here swilling wine and playing some little seduction game with a woman who's got 'Galactor' written all over her!"

Ken's earlier words, "You're a magnet for disaster," came back to him, along with a rush of anger.

"Yeah, right. I understand, Ken –and Jessica is an annoying ditz, isn't she? Why don't you admit that you're just jealous that I'm actually enjoying myself here? Hell, that I'm actually _capable_ of enjoying myself?"

"_You _like her, and she's all over you!" snapped Ken, "That's all the proof I need that this 'Myrtle' is up to no good!" With that, Ken turned and stalked back to his cooking station.

0000000000

Joe studied the newest recipe on the large screen at the front of the room, while, once again, Chef Julian made his rounds as all the entrants' "tartes aux pommes" emerged hot from the ovens. Once again, his and Myrtle's pies (and Myrtle herself) received especially approving looks from the Chef. The actual taste test, though, wouldn't happen till the end of the day.

**Boeuf Bourguignon**

**6-ounce chunk of unsmoked, unsalted lean pork belly**

**Olive oil**

**3 lbs. lean stewing beef, cut into 2-3 inch chunks**

**3 cups full-bodied, young red wine**

**2 cups beef bouillon**

**1 tablespoon tomato paste**

**2 to 3 cloves of mashed garlic**

**½ teaspoon of thyme**

**1 bay leaf**

**Salt**

**For the garniture:**

**1 lb. fresh mushrooms**

**½ tablespoon oil**

**1½ tablespoon butter**

**¼ teaspoon salt**

**18 to 24 small white onions**

**1 tablespoon butter**

**½ teaspoon salt**

**Water**

"We didn't drink all the wine, did we?" asked Joe, as Chef Julian headed back to the front of the room.

"No," said Myrtle, amused, "There is plenty left for this." She proceeded to open a new bottle, and splashed a little in his glass.

He cast a quick glance over at Jessica. Ken was standing near her and so far no one had tried to kill her today. In all likelihood, no one would –that message the ISO intercepted could have meant anything, or nothing. No, he didn't really need to bother watching Princess Jessica.

He much preferred watching Myrtle chopping beef into chunks anyway.

Now she was showing him just how to lightly brown _lardons_ (pork belly cut into 1x1¼ inch sticks, she'd explained) in a pan with a little oil.

"Render out the fat," Chef Julian had instructed, "You will use it for browning the beef."

Browning the beef entailed putting the fat into a skillet –"enough to 'film' the skillet, no more," Myrtle said- and getting it hot –"but not so it smokes, that is too hot."

Browning the beef chunks in the skillet was a fairly straight forward process, aided by Myrtle's whispered hints, "a few at a time, do not crowd the skillet" and "keep turning them, frequently."

Then, it wasn't too hard to arrange the browned pieces of beef in a casserole dish, to pour the browning fat out of the skillet and to instead add the wine.

"Scrape up all the brown bits from the skillet into the wine –they are most flavorful."

Next the wine too was added to the casserole dish, along with the _lardons_ and some bouillon ("just enough so all the beef is covered"), and the tomato paste, garlic, thyme, bay leaf and salt.

"Bring it all to a simmer on top of the stove," directed Chef Julian, "And then cover it and keep it simmering in the oven for at least a couple hours."

"Until the beef is tender," whispered Myrtle, "You test it with a fork."

Chef Julian was making rounds again. A woman ahead of him got chided for burning her beef, someone else for adding too much bouillon, a man at the station behind him for forgetting to add the garlic.

His and Myrtle's efforts had received approving looks. Ken's and Jessica's apparently passed muster. But the competition element of this whole event was receding in importance to him now. He was leaning over his stove, sniffing appreciatively as the casserole dish's contents began simmering.

Mmmm, delicious. And somehow even… comforting? Out of necessity –he lived in a trailer, after all- he'd always pretty much regarded food as no more than the necessary fuel to keep his body doing what he needed it to do: fighting Galactor.

But now, the savory aromas of a real, well-prepared meal wafted into the dark recesses of his mind and stirred up unfamiliar, vague feelings of…

Of peace, of safety…

Things he had lost, so many years ago. But there was more…

He was a Science Ninja, committed to the defeat of Galactor, and that entailed sacrifice, a soldier's lifestyle that was in many ways bleak and spartan.

But deep within him, some part of him had always craved the fullest and richest experiences that life had to offer. He knew that every new day could easily be the one that ended with him dead.

He'd sought ways to feel more intensely alive, to reassure himself that if today really was the end for him, then he'd lived as much as he could have; the heart-thumping chaos of the racetrack, tires squealing, careening around bends at the very edge of losing all control; the feel of a woman's body in his arms, sharing passion, sating a primal hunger.

Feeling free, even though his job was defending the entire world.

But it was a revelation to him now that the chore he'd no time for, the mundane act of _cooking_, could in fact elevate mere _eating_ into an experience that enhanced the very act of living, another kind of sensual satiety.

A hand on his, caressing softly; it was Myrtle's. A warm look in her dark eyes as she stared into his, saying nothing; she really _understood_ –he could tell.

0000000000

He'd heated the butter and oil in a skillet ("until the butter foam begins to subside") and he was tossing the chopped, fresh mushrooms lightly, letting them brown –but not too much.

He was really getting the hang of this, he thought.

Next were all the little onions. Myrtle showed him how dropping them all briefly in boiling water made them a whole lot easier to peel.

"Pierce them with a knife in their root ends too, about a quarter inch deep," Myrtle advised him quietly, "Then they will not burst during cooking."

Joe laughed, moving closer to her. "Is there anything you _don't_ know about cooking? How did you learn all this?" he asked.

She merely smiled mysteriously.

"No really," Joe said, realizing then just how much he wanted a real answer, "Where do you live? What do you do?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Where do _you_ live? What do _you_ do?"

Crap! What to say…

"Because," she added, raising an eyebrow, "I do not think you write romance novels, _Fern_."

He froze. Playfully, she threw an onion at him. He managed, barely, to dodge it and it hit the man at the station behind him –a man who scowled fiercely at Myrtle, thick brows drawn together, but stayed silent.

"Ah," she said, frowning slightly, "So we both have our secrets, then."

He didn't reply; he turned away and occupied himself with listening to Chef Julian tell them all to put the onions in a saucepan with butter, salt and water to simmer until tender.

As much as he hated the notion, could Ken, in fact, be right about Myrtle? Ken did have, he admitted, an annoying tendency to be right.

No, he told himself, not this time. A man's luck could change.

0000000000

**1 tablespoon butter**

**¼ cup onion, finely diced**

**¼ cup celery, finely diced**

**¼ cup carrot, finely diced**

**15 ounces tomatoes, cut up in pieces**

**2 tablespoons olive oil**

**1 pound shrimp in the shell**

**5 cups seafood stock**

**1 cup dry vermouth**

**4 tablespoons raw rice**

**2 tablespoons butter**

**½ cup heavy cream**

**Salt and pepper**

A new list of ingredients appeared on the screen behind Chef Julian.

"Your garnitures will need to simmer for at least 30 minutes," announced Chef Julian from the front of the room, "In the meantime, direct your attention to the other screens and watch me as I demonstrate my famous –and hitherto secret- recipe for _Bisque aux Crevettes_!"

"His shrimp bisque," said Myrtle, "This actually could be quite interesting."

"Those of you who wish to watch me up here are welcome to gather around," he added.

Several people did. Jessica hightailed it to the front of the room too –probably still hoping to ingratiate herself with Chef Julian, Joe thought. Ken, looking less enthusiastic, followed her. It must have been dawning on him that no one was going to attack Jessica at this event, but he was ever diligent. He and Myrtle stayed where they were. She poured him some more wine…

0000000000

"Now you, and you alone know just how to prepare my personal version of Bisque aux Crevettes –a dish that won me the Prix d'Or in the soup category at last year's Institut du Monde Culinaire competition!" declared Chef Julian grandly, "And everyone will get a chance to taste it after it has simmered for a little while."

Everyone seemed to be excited about that, and Joe realized that he was looking forward to it too. In fact, he was wondering if Jun would let him use the kitchen at the Snack J to try making it himself sometime…

"But now, as your stews still need more time in the ovens, everyone who has not already done so -set your garnitures aside. I direct you all now to the room just through those doors over there. It's a small theatre, equipped with very comfortable chairs, and you can all relax for a little while and enjoy an exclusive, premiere showing of a documentary film of the tour I did last year, exploring the most exotic foreign cuisines the world has to offer."

It had been a long day, as he and Ken had left Utoland on a very early flight that morning. It felt good to settle into a cushy chair in the back row of the theatre and stretch his legs out in front of him, Myrtle at his side. Ken and Jessica were in the front row.

He'd had, he realized, probably a little more wine than he ought to have had –he'd lost track of how often she'd added to his glass. The theatre was very dark, now that the film had started, and he was feeling a little drowsy.

The documentary might even have been interesting, but his thoughts were drifting…

He was glad he'd come here today, even though he'd gotten nowhere with Princess Jessica (and frankly, no longer wanted to) and even though it didn't look like he'd be thwarting any Galactor attacks against her. Still, he did feel a twinge of guilt for pretty much leaving all the guard duty to Ken.

But Ken was more than capable of handling it all himself.

And Myrtle was so…

He moved his arm to put it around her shoulders –but she wasn't there. When had she gotten up and left? Surely he hadn't been so sleepy as to not notice _that_?

But apparently he had been. In the darkness, a tall, slim form outlined against the screen walked in front of him now and then settled into the chair beside his.

"Come with me," she whispered in his ear. He could feel her hair brushing against his face, but especially her hand on his thigh.

0000000000

An office of some kind, cluttered with cooking paraphernalia –once the door closed behind them he could barely see in the faint light emitted by a digital clock on the desk. But that didn't matter; he could still feel.

He could feel Myrtle's closeness, her hands on his arms urging him across the room and into the chair; he could feel her leather-clad thighs sliding sleekly over his. The chair tilted back. She was astride him, undulating softly against him as her hands slid across his chest, along his shoulders and neck and then entwined themselves in his hair, stroking. He could feel her breath as the contours of her face moved lightly over his, feel even the slight brush of her eyelashes, and then the warm, supple wetness that was her mouth on his, seeking. Asking…

He shouldn't be doing this. He was supposed to be on duty, guarding the Princess.

But surely he could leave all that to Ken.

He couldn't not do this. Every day could be his last and he needed to _live_; he needed this.

He'd been holding her around her waist, but now his hands found their way beneath her shirt, touching her skin, as he answered her tentative kiss with one far more hungry, his lips pressing against hers, his tongue seeking entry.

Neither of them spoke at all; words weren't necessary. Hands, lips, bodies caressed, stroked and explored as shed garments accrued on the floor…

0000000000

"I was right about you," she murmured, kissing his shoulder, "Superb."

Their bodies still one, he responded by pulling her even closer against his chest, as the rise and fall of her breathing joined and gradually slowed in time with his own.

He knew they had to get out of here –back to reality- and soon, but first, one last kiss…

The door flew open. Light flooded in.

Joe could see past Myrtle, see that the intruder was the thick-browed man from the cooking station behind his own.

"Hey!" said Joe, fully expecting the man to react with shocked embarrassment and to flee, as Myrtle craned her neck around and gasped.

Instead he looked outraged and –what the hell?- he didn't leave. He just put his hands in his pockets and-

It all happened so damned fast.

Myrtle grabbed something from the desk, twisted her torso, flung her arm out.

The man collapsed to the floor, a kitchen knife embedded in his chest.

_What the hell?!_

0000000000


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Myrtle unstraddled him hastily –just as well, as he was about to shove her away. She didn't bother with her clothes; she just ran to the door and shut it. Then she turned on the room's lights.

With her foot she pushed the man so he was lying flat on his back, with the knife protruding upward. He was clearly dead.

"_What did you do that for?"_ yelled Joe, getting back into his jeans.

"I can explain," said Myrtle anxiously.

"You'd damned well better! Here!" He grabbed her clothes and threw them at her.

He was pulling his t-shirt over his head when Ken's words came back to him.

You attract women who are _trouble_.

_Damn it all to hell!_ Ken was right again.

If she made a move to leave this room, he'd stop her. She wasn't going anywhere! Not until he'd gotten an explanation, and for her sake, it had better be a goddamned good one!

She had her clothes back on.

"Sit in the chair!" said Joe, "And keep your hands where I can see them!"

She eyed him warily, but she complied.

But now she was staring at him beseechingly.

"I can explain what I did," she said rapidly, "That man, he is-"

The door opened again.

This time it was Ken.

"Here you are!" gasped Ken, eyes wide in alarm, clutching the door frame. Then he saw the body on the floor, and Myrtle in the chair.

"What's going…" he cried. But Ken didn't finish his question.

He too had toppled forward and collapsed on the floor.

Joe rushed over to Ken. He didn't have any knives stuck in him or wounds of any kind but he was unconscious, his breathing was weak and his face was deathly white.

"Don't you move!" he snarled at Myrtle, and took a few steps out of the office and turned. Now he had a side view of all the rows of cooking stations, but especially of Chef Julian's.

All the other entrants were gathered around Chef Julian's station, but he and all of them were sprawled about on the floor, unmoving.

Including Princess Jessica.

_Oh no!_

Joe ran over to her, kneeling down at her side. She was limp and completely unresponsive, but she was breathing. Hastily, he examined several other entrants; they seemed to be in a similar condition.

But for how much longer? Would their conditions get worse? Were they all dying?

_What the hell had happened to everyone here?_

And then it came to him –_the shrimp bisque…_

He picked up Jessica. But Ken-

Crap! He turned around to see Myrtle, inside the office, about to kneel at Ken's side.

"Get away from him!" He stormed her way. _"What have you done, you Galactor bitch?"_

Myrtle fled back to the chair as he set Jessica down carefully on the floor just outside the office –between the dead man and Ken, there wasn't much more floor space left inside and he was damned if he was going to set Jessica down anywhere near Myrtle.

"He is looking really bad!" Myrtle was saying, "We need an ambulance and-"

Damn, she was as good an actress as she was a cook, thought Joe.

"Don't try to act like you had nothing to do with this! Everyone out there –everyone- is down!" yelled Joe as he studied Ken anxiously, but Myrtle was telling the truth about one thing; Ken was looking _really_ bad.

Panic tore through Joe's gut.

There was a telephone on the desk. He strode towards it and dialed 911. Then he shoved the receiver into Myrtle's hand.

"Tell them we've got multiple victims of poisoning here and they need to get medics here damned fast! Do anything else and I swear I'll break your neck here and now!"

Myrtle closed her eyes and began relaying the news of the situation to a dispatcher. He rushed back to Ken's side.

Crushing guilt weighed him down. He had failed everyone today –Dr. Nambu, Princess Jessica, and most of all, Ken. He hadn't done his duty diligently, he hadn't protected the Princess and he hadn't listened to Ken's warning about Myrtle –even though he knew that Ken had the bloody annoying habit of always being right!

It was all so obvious now. Myrtle had been the Galactor assassin all along. She'd snuck out of the theatre while he was too sleepy to notice and she'd poisoned the bisque, knowing that the Princess would eat some. But had her goal been to incapacitate the Princess and everyone else in order to facilitate abduction or to kill the Princess here and now? The man she'd thrown the knife at –he must be her accomplice and she'd killed him to silence him forever. Typical Galactor treachery!

He wanted to scream, he wanted to beg Ken to forgive him, and he wanted to kill Myrtle. But he needed to think –faster and more clearly than he ever had!

He knew they'd all been poisoned. He knew because he was a consummate expert in the art of poisons. All his shuriken were deadly. He always sought the fastest, the most powerful and the most guaranteed-to-be-fatal poisons and used them in the tips of his signature weapon.

He could try to coerce information out of Myrtle as to what poison she had used, but that could well take more time than he had –and he wouldn't trust a damned thing she told him anyway!

He turned again to Jessica, still limp and completely unconscious.

He tried to calm himself. There was no way he'd be able to figure out exactly what poison had been used –not without medical equipment that he didn't have- but the fact was clear that the Princess was still breathing and her color was okay. A fleet of trained medics had been summoned a minute ago, and he tried to reassure himself that they'd get her to a hospital in time to ensure her survival, and that of everyone else here.

But Ken… he was clearly in worse shape than anyone else. He was barely breathing and his lips and his fingernails seemed to be turning bluish. His eyes were open, but they were rolled back in his head. Unnaturally bluish veins were distinctly visible through the pallor of Ken's face.

_Oh no, no, no…_

Had he somehow been dosed with more poison? Or a different poison? If so, what one? Could he last until the ambulances arrived?

He glanced up at Myrtle, sitting stiffly in the chair and clutching her arms as she stared at him. How could he have been so damned stupid? He thought about what they'd been doing on that very chair just a short time before and it made him feel sick.

He truly was a magnet for disaster.

_Please, Ken_, he implored silently, holding his friend's hand, feeling his pulse on his neck with his other hand. _ I'm sorry._ _Please, hang on, Ken._

Ken twitched spasmodically.

Then he stopped breathing completely.

He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling not to give in to panic or despair. Joe knew how to perform CPR, but before he did, there was one other thing he could do…

He wasn't always completely stupid. He was aware there was a chance that one of his teammates could, in the heat and confusion of battle, get hit with one of his shuriken. There was always a chance he could somehow get poisoned by them himself; he'd built up and maintained immunity over the years to some of the poisons he used (the reason he liked to hold only _certain_ of his shuriken in his teeth), but not all of them.

Most of the poisons he used in his shuriken had antidotes, and he carried tiny syringes that could administer doses of these antidotes.

But he didn't know if any of them would do Ken any good –he didn't know what he'd been poisoned with!

And they were contained in the compartment on the left side of his birdstyle's belt –he couldn't access them unless he transmuted into the Condor.

Myrtle –that witch!- was still sitting in the chair and staring at him, but he was going to do whatever it took to save Ken.

He could always kill her later.

He raised his bracelet to his mouth and said "Bird go!"

A blinding flash of light flooded the office and spilled through the door and before it had even faded, Joe was digging frantically in his belt's compartment for the syringes.

"_Oh my God…"_ Myrtle was whispering.

There were four syringes. As fast as he could, he injected all of them into Ken's arm.

Then he began CPR.

0000000000

The universe shrank down to nothing but him and Ken, and the chest compressions he was performing on him. It was like a nightmare; too much time had passed, and no time at all.

_Come on, Ken, breathe!_

Suspended as he was in desperation, he could never have said how much time had gone by. But then-

Had Ken's eyes moved?

He stopped what he was doing, staring at Ken's chest.

_Breathe, damn you! Live!_

And he was, he really was!

Joe realized he was laughing aloud now in joy and relief.

"What…" Ken was saying in a weak, ragged voice, "What's happening?"

"You were poisoned," Joe told him, "By _her_!" He pointed in Myrtle's direction, not wanting to look at her.

"Poisoned?" said Ken, then his eyes widened. "The Princess! Is she-"

Ken had turned his head, and seen Jessica lying prone on the floor just outside the door.

"She's been poisoned too, but not as badly as you. Medics are on the way, they'll be here any minute! It had to have been the shrimp bisque –everyone who ate any of it is down."

Ken blinked a few times, eyes blank in recollection.

"I remember… we all tried it, but you and Myrtle had disappeared-"

"Myrtle's going to pay for what she's done," growled Joe.

Ken managed to sit up now, first staring at the dead man and then at Myrtle.

Joe found himself now staring into Myrtle's dark eyes. For a fleeting moment, before, he thought he'd found… something with her. But it had all been a lie.

"You don't understand," said Myrtle softly, never taking her eyes from his. The look of anguish in her eyes… Damn, she was good.

"Oh what, is it time now for the whole 'Galactor made me do it, I'm not really bad' schtick? Let me tell you, I'm not buying it!"

"The poison was in the bisque?" Ken was saying.

"Yeah," he replied, still glaring at Myrtle, "It's the only thing you all ate that she and I didn't –or him either, I guess." Joe shrugged in the direction of the dead man.

"Okay," said Ken, "Makes sense. I had two servings of it-"

"Jessica!" said Ken suddenly. He whipped around to look out the door, and as he did, Joe spun around too.

Jessica was gone.

"Jessica didn't eat any bisque!" Ken was saying frantically, looking bewildered as he tried to stand up, "She gave me her serving –said she had to watch her figure!"

"Stay down!" said Joe, giving Ken a shove backwards as he leaped to his feet and dashed out of the office.

Jessica hadn't gotten very far. She was running past the cooking stations, heading for the main doors out of the kitchen. He sped after her.

She'd made it halfway down the hallway before he caught up to her, grabbing her arm. As she spun around, he pushed her up against the wall, holding her arm in a vice-like grip.

Suddenly, emergency medics began streaming into hallway.

"Help me!" screamed Jessica, in classic damsel-in-distress mode, "He's gone mad! The Condor's trying to kill me!"

Several medics stopped and stared. Joe glared at them. Damn it, was he going to have to explain himself to them?

"Please!" cried Jessica, still looking captivatingly adorable even as tears of fear ran down her cheeks. He closed his eyes briefly to compose himself.

And he opened them an instant later as he realized that someone had rushed up behind him and was now at his side.

A fist flew, straight into Jessica's face.

"_Shut up!"_ said Myrtle.

Only Joe's grip on Jessica's arm kept her from sliding down the wall to the floor.

"The victims are in here," Myrtle was saying to the medics, "Follow me!"

0000000000

Everyone –Chef Julian, all the entrants- had been taken away in ambulances and the medics thought they'd all pull through.

Everyone had been taken away, that is, except Ken, Jessica, Myrtle and the dead man.

Ken, up and walking around now, had insisted he was fine and refused to go. Joe didn't think he looked anything like "fine," but had known better than to argue the matter.

Jessica had been expertly-yet-non-painfully tied to the chair in the office with cooking twine by Myrtle –Joe was trying very hard not to think about the implications of _that_ skill.

Myrtle was standing guard over her, looking like she really wanted to stab her with a knife too.

The dead man was still dead.

Joe had used the full effect of his Condor reputation to send all the emergency response personnel on their way with all the victims of the poisoned bisque, and to insist that he would take responsibility for Ken, Jessica and the dead man. But he knew that police would be arriving any minute now.

And before that happened, he wanted some answers!

Myrtle had walked away to the far side of the room. Jessica was looking thoroughly sullen and unrepentant, but he tried anyway.

"You didn't eat any bisque but you pretended to be poisoned –and then you tried to run away," he said coldly, "It was you who poisoned the bisque. You were hanging around Chef Julian's cooking station when he prepared it, and you would have had a chance to slip poison into it before heading into the Theatre, or into one of its ingredients even earlier in the event –you spent enough time up at his cooking station, pretending to fawn over him."

Jessica was silent for a moment, but then she raised her head proudly, a glint of mania in her eye.

"It was the vermouth, actually. Julian told me at the very beginning that he'd be making his famous shrimp bisque later –I had _him_ charmed, all right- and I've watched his show so many times, I knew he'd use vermouth in a seafood bisque."

Joe was surprised by this detailed admission, but continued.

"So what the hell were you trying to accomplish? Was this some desperate bid for sympathy and attention? You nearly got him killed!" He gestured at Ken.

"I wanted him killed!" hissed Jessica suddenly, as all pretense of innocence fled her face, "I heard Flake on the phone to Dr. Nambu, asking him to send Gatchaman to protect me! She didn't know I was listening -she's too stupid to realize how much better I am than her! Too stupid to know that I should be ruling the Kingdom –not her! I knew that if I could get rid of Gatchaman, that the next time Galactor tried to kill her, they'd succeed and that Galactor and I would become allies, with _me_ ruling the Monalince Kingdom!"

"How did you…" Ken was staring at Jessica, horrified.

"Of course I knew you're Gatchaman!" Jessica smirked, "You've practically got 'noble hero' tattooed on your forehead and you stuck close to me the entire time." She began giggling hysterically, "What I wasn't expecting was the Condor too."

"So the whole 'The Princess dies in Amegapolis this Saturday' message was a complete ruse, then," said Ken, "Just so that your sister would appeal to the Science Ninja Team for help."

But Jessica was still giggling. "No, that part was true! I wanted to kill Gatchaman; he wanted to kill the Princess." She pointed at the dead man. "Galactor wanted to help both of us succeed –they gave me the poison, and they gave him ten grand to be able to enter the event."

Joe was shaking his head, and Ken looked equally confused.

"Wait, _you're_ the Princess –what you're saying makes no sense!"

But Jessica just kept giggling, her face vacant with insanity. Soon, she'd slipped into stupor.

How long, Joe wondered, how long has she been like this? Princess Flake would be devastated when she learned what her own little sister had become –mentally deranged and a tool of Galactor.

"No, it makes sense," said Myrtle flatly, "You see, _I _am the Princess."

Joe had almost forgotten she was in the room, but now he whipped around to look at her.

"My name is not really 'Myrtle,'" she said, "I am Princess Lavinia of Danubia."

He and Ken could only stare in shocked silence.

"He," and here Myrtle gestured at the dead man, "He is, without a doubt, a Carpathian who came here today to kill me."

In the wake of Jessica's bizarre actions and, now, her incredible confession, Joe's thoughts hadn't had time to fully grasp that Myrtle didn't, in fact, belong to Galactor and might not be a knife-wielding assassin.

He almost felt dizzy –too much was happening too quickly!

Myrtle walked over to the dead man and felt through the pockets of his jacket.

She pulled out a revolver, and handed it to Joe. He only needed a second to tell that it was loaded.

"If I had not thrown that knife at him, he would have shot both you and me."

"How do you know he's a Carpathian?" asked Ken.

Joe was lost in the realization that his intimacy and passion with her was _not_, after all, a memory that would only fill him with guilt and disgust for the rest of his life.

No, what they'd experienced together might be real and true. It might be a beginning.

The beginning of finding what he'd long been searching for…

She was studying the Carpathian's face, fists clenched but steady. _Not_ her first kill, he realized.

"He 'forgot' to put garlic in his Boeuf Bourguignon, but many of the most conservative and traditional Carpathians refuse to eat garlic –it is an old folk custom of theirs."

"Of course!" said Ken, like one who now gets it, "Danubia and Carpathia have been at war with each other for _years_, but just recently a peace treaty has been brokered. This man must have been one of those Carpathians who are vehemently opposed to it."

"Yes," said Myrtle, turning away, "Even in Danubia there are many who still wish to continue the war. If I had been killed, it would have served as a rallying cry for them, and the peace treaty would have certainly fallen apart and the war continued."

Joe found his voice again. "So," he said, walking over to her and taking her hand in his, "I guess you know now that I'm not Fern." Myrtle wouldn't be able to see his face through his visor, but she smiled at him anyway.

She was so beautiful.

"Aren't you," asked Ken, in a somewhat sharper voice than necessary, "The heir to the Danubian throne?"

Myrtle nodded, but she was still looking at him with her shining dark eyes, still holding his gloved hand.

"And, correct me if I'm wrong here," added Ken, "But aren't you, as part of the peace treaty, pledged to marry the new King of Carpathia?"

_What?_

Myrtle closed her eyes.

"My father, he says it is crucial that there be a symbolic union of Danubia and Carpathia and the establishment of closer administrative ties, or else the peace treaty will not last, and thousands more will continue to be killed in a futile war that has ravaged both kingdoms for far, far too long."

Silence filled the room.

"I wanted to win this event today," said Myrtle quietly, "In order to be able to use all the entrants' fees to establish a charity for children in both Danubia and Carpathia who have been made orphans by the war."

But he was still stuck on her first sentence.

"You have a fiancé."

She understood.

"You do not understand," she said, "For people like me, our marriages are purely political arrangements. Where my feelings are concerned, it does not matter!"

"It sure as hell matters to me, Lavinia." He pulled his hand away from hers.

0000000000

"I don't think you need to worry," Ken said, out of the blue. They had been on the plane back to Utoland for three hours. Joe hadn't said a word the entire time, so he had no idea what Ken meant.

"Worry about what?" he asked, a bit testily. He wasn't in the mood to talk –didn't Ken see that?

"About… compromising your secret identity. Or mine. She doesn't know our real names and she doesn't know where we live. I don't think Dr. Nambu will be too bent out of shape, especially as you did what you did in order to save my life."

She? Did he mean Jessica or Myrtle -no, _Lavinia_? In Jessica's case it hardly mattered –she'd be shut up in a psychiatric hospital in the Monalince Kingdom for years to come.

Actually, he didn't care what Ken meant.

Silence prevailed again for awhile. Until-

"I'm sorry about what I said, Joe, earlier."

"What are you talking about?" he growled, not bothering to open his eyes. For a guy who'd nearly been poisoned to death today, Ken was being awfully chatty.

"I said you were a magnet for disaster, that you only attract women who are trouble."

"So what's your point?" He didn't bother to look at Ken.

"I said I'm _sorry_. You're not. The right girl for you is out there somewhere. You'll find her."

Joe didn't answer. He was remembering…

Ken had been on the office phone with Princess Flake explaining what had happened with her sister –Joe hadn't envied him that job- and making arrangements for the body guards to come and take Jessica back to Monalince Kingdom. It was all going to be hushed up; the public would be told that Jessica had suffered a nervous breakdown but nothing else. The police had been willing to believe the Condor's word that the dead man had also been the poisoner, and that Myrtle Vlach had killed him in self defense. They'd been taking Myrtle's statement, and preparing to move his body to a morgue.

Then it had been time to leave. He'd been standing in the building's foyer, watching through the glass doors as Ken had overseen the guards collecting and taking Princess Jessica away in the same luxurious sedan that had brought her here.

He'd changed back into his civvies, and had been running a hand wearily through his hair.

"Fern? Condor? I do not know what to call you…" The voice behind him had been hesitant.

"Why are you still here?"

She'd walked around him and stood facing him.

"I know what you must think of me…"

"Hey," he'd said, shrugging, "What you do doesn't matter to me."

"That is not what you said before!"

_Damn…_

She'd kept her eyes on his, unwavering.

"I want you to know that I fully intend to fulfill my duty to my country and be an honorable wife –I always intended that."

He hadn't said anything, but something had slipped past his façade.

"But it is," she'd whispered, "For me, a sacrifice –one I am willing to make, but today, I was not married yet, and you were…"

She'd reached for his hand again, and somehow he'd been unable to deny her it this time. The look in her sad, dark eyes –he knew where such feelings came from.

"I wanted one last chance to be _free_, while I still can be. Surely _you_ understand?"

He'd looked away.

"Yeah, I understand."

But for a brief moment he held both her hands in his. Then he walked away, through the doors, out to the street where Ken was waiting.

It had been a good bye, though he hadn't wanted to say the words. Words weren't necessary.

0000000000

A couple hours later, he answered.

"Hey, Ken?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you think Jun would let me use the Snack J's kitchen?"

"Huh?" said Ken, now sitting up and turning to look at Joe.

"I never did get to try the apple pie I made or the stew. I want to make them again."

"You want to _cook?"_ asked Ken, eyes wide.

"Yeah," he said, "And I'll make enough for five people."

"I have influence with Jun," Ken smiled, "You just name the day."

**The End.**


End file.
